I drag myself to the chair at the table. Prince joins me and puts his head on my lap, licking my good hand. He looks at me and I swear he’s trying to comfort me, telling me I’m not alone, and that he’s worth hanging around for.
“What would I do without you, boy? I’m sorry I forgot about you for a moment in my selfish gloominess. Of course, you are worth hanging around for.” The dog’s tail is thumping the wooden floor, and he has that thoughtful, patient look as if he’d say, “I have all the time in the world to wait till your silly phase is over and we can go for a walk.”
Nothing puts an end to suicidal thoughts like getting your fingers caught in a door. Prince is right. I don’t want to put an end to my life. I want to stop feeling hopeless and empty and want the pain and inner chaos to stop. I’ve tried medication and everything else I could think of. Perhaps it’s time to give Charlotte’s suggestion a shot and have a stab at the voices she claims are other parts of me. Last time I saw her she challenged me.
“What have you got to lose?”
“My sanity, my mind,” was my answer. She tipped her head to the side and raised her eyebrows. “Didn’t you tell me only minutes ago, they’re lost already?”
She had a point there. Other parts of me? My mind boggles. If they were parts of me, wouldn’t I know about it? Never in my life have I heard something more ludicrous.
I scratch Prince’s neck and smile at him. “Good boy. I guess we’ve got work to do.” My gaze wanders to the black notebook on the table. It’s open. Someone scribbled in it and that someone wasn’t me.
Actually…
I pull the book closer. Yes, it’s a note for me.
It starts, Dear Elise,
I’m not sure I want to continue, because this feels very much like being caught in a cheap time travel novel. Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m trapped in some cheap time travel movie. I flick back to the previous message from Ama. This is not her handwriting, it’s different, and that’s spooky. I give myself a mental smack around the ears. If this is a movie, there is no harm in reading what’s written.
Dear Elise,
Can you believe Charlotte McF. thinks writing to you is a good idea? I hope she is right because the last thing I want is to freak you out. I know how much you struggle… we all do. Like you, we knew we couldn’t go on like this much longer. That’s why we decided to get away from Helen, the doctors, and the whole, creepy NGYD. They are intertwined with our past; Elizabeth’s parents and the daily nightmares we call our life. Remember, Charlotte often said to you, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” We are here at Wright’s Homestead to remember that past and deal with it because we’ve had enough of the pain and the hurting. How about you? Are you onboard?
I push the notebook away and sit back. My breath comes in ragged gasps as if I’ve surfaced from a deep underwater cave where I hid for far too long. Have I forgotten how to draw a breath? I wish I could stay relaxed and contemplate the state of my affairs. But I’m anything but relaxed. These could have been my words, but they’re not. Familiar thoughts of wanting to be anywhere but where I am, rush through my mind.
What did Charlotte say? “The definition of craziness is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome.” That woman was full of annoying sayings like that. Tools of the trade of a therapist? Sayings like that made me swing between feeling like a wimp and giving her the boot as my therapist. But I’m not a wimp! I can do this.
From the corner of my eye, the notebook beckons me. Yes, yes, I’m coming, but first I need a cup of tea. On the cooking range, I find a kettle sitting on the back element with hot water. Next to the range, hanging on hooks from the bottom shelf of a spice rack, are four white, chipped, enamel mugs. I pick one and let a tea bag steep in the hot water until the liquid is honey brown.
For a while, I’m sipping my tea and let my gaze wander past the notebook and through the room. Soft crawling shadows of the dying flames in the range combine with the smell of smoldering wood and old house. What am I doing here, thrown into the long-forgotten world of my long-forgotten family? I’m not even sure I want to be here, but where else could I go? Running back to Helen and my old life is not an option.
Perhaps the safety and solitude this place offers can help me to put my life in order without the threats of ridicule or hospitalization? That sounds about right. With the steaming tea in my hand, I return to the table and pull the notebook to me.
You never liked the idea that the voices you hear are part of you, a bunch of ‘internal’ friends, who came to help you manage life. Trust me, we struggle with that concept just as much as you do. If we are part of you, you are part of us. It doesn’t feel like it, does it? I don’t even know what that means, but I trust Charlotte—by the way, we call her Miss Marple—to know what she’s talking about.
We are a large
